Just You and Me
by avout
Summary: Joker flips after the Normandy's crash, post-destroy ending. A psycho horror story written for Aria's Afterlife Spooky October Contest.


He knew the turian had to go first, with those words that made light of his loss, and those glittering eyes that saw everything.

He wasn't a soldier. Nor an assassin. Nor a ninja. Nor anything else that had a hope of winning a fight against a scary-ass sniper with vigilante leanings. There wasn't a single martial bone in his body, just a host of brittle ones that chipped at the smallest sudden force and twinged when he moved too quickly. He didn't have a weapon, hell, he didn't even have a ship, now that _she_—now that the Normandy had crashed, spilling its guts across the trees and killing half the crew in his worst career landing. The others kept assuring him that it wasn't his fault, but he didn't need their pity. Others might be quick to blame the Crucible's blast, but he'd never let circumstances define him.

He wouldn't start now. _She_ was depending on him. He couldn't afford to fail. So he listened, and watched, and waited.

He listened until the talk turned from urgent repairs to establishing perimeter and routine. He watched as the turian took charge of the scout teams. He moved before the turian and the major set out. Then he waited until the next day came.

He was sleeping when the distress call arrived, but the clamor of the returning rescuers woke him. Rubbing his beard—he kept it neat and trim, just the way _she_ wanted—he made his way across the AI core and palmed the door open.

The turian lay shivering uncontrollably, delirious as the quarian hurried to unbuckle his armor plates. He smiled, covering the motion with a scratch to his beard when the turian's eyes moved towards him. It didn't matter what he saw now. They strapped him to the bed as another wave of convulsions shook him. When they injected the drugs that should have saved his life, his groans pitched over into an agonized keen.

"Who marked these dextro?" the major roared. "First the rations, and now…damn it!"

He hoped they would blame the dead, wrinkled bitch who thought synthetic life wasn't real.

Nobody ever wondered why he lingered in the med bay alone, not when the AI core lay beyond it. He stopped at the covered body, turned down the sheet, and took an eye. _She_ deserved the best of everything.

Then he set the labels right, because the quarian was the only one who had cried when the Crucible's fire cut _her_ strings.

* * *

><p>He took the major next.<p>

It began when the first tentative messages from Sol brought news of their bittersweet victory. Amidst the whoops and the hugs and the sad, reserved smiles, the major announced a memorial service the next day.

They gathered at the gray wall, where the fuselage was open to the sky, and breathed the unfamiliar pungent air of their new world while they told their stories. Respectful silence fell when the major spoke of Shepard, lingering when he bowed his head in remembrance of one who was more than a comrade.

He pitied the man until he placed the commander's name on the wall—then all his sympathy and good will scorched to mist. Shepard was _missing_. Not dead. Never mind the grunts who said the Citadel was shattered, two ward arms broken away. Shepard had returned from worse to lead them again to victory. Then he remembered Horizon and Udina's coup, and the mists of his former sympathy condensed into acid rain. How dare the major call his feelings love when he was so quick to despair?

The betrayal weighed his brows down for the rest of the service. He refused to affix _her_ plate when his turn came.

That night, the major retired with one of his blinding migraines. He brought him his medicine—one of the few useful errands a cripple could run—and stood by silently as he scanned the pills. After the debacle with the labels, everyone was still wary. The major drank, fell back groaning against the pillows, and thanked him. He took the tainted water glass away.

Because Shepard loved him—he was sure of that—he made sure he didn't feel any pain. The major slipped into narcotic sleep that night as his heart and lungs slowed, and then stilled. It was the same cocktail he used to drink when tension threated to snap his bones, only six times as potent.

Shepard was his friend. Shepard would have found a way to save them all. He took the tongue that had ordered him away.

* * *

><p>"It's wearing on us all," said the broker, sighing heavily as she touched the major's nameplate. It was just the two of them beside the wall, now. No one else wanted to linger after the second memorial in three days. "But Admiral Hackett says help is on its way. Oh, Kaidan."<p>

"Yeah," he said, hunkering down with his thoughts because he didn't care for any of the names.

She forced a smile despite bloodshot eyes and blue skin paling to gray. "How are you doing, ah, Jeff?"

He flew into a black rage. "Don't you _dare_ call me that! You're not—don't you dare try to take her place!" His fists wanted to clench, but he froze them with tears in his eyes, reflexes forged in a lifetime's worth of self-restraint. Fragile bones didn't lend themselves to violent displays. He turned around and lumbered away awkwardly instead, back through the med bay and into the core, where the dead lights never judged him.

A few days later, he stopped beside her as she worried over datapads in the mess, far more composed than the last time they met.

"Hey," he called, wearing a smile that didn't touch his eyes.

The broker looked up at him. "Hello, Joker," she replied politely, watching his face.

"Wanna go for a walk?"

"Ah…outside?"

He shrugged. "Yeah. I could use a change of scenery, you know? And you look like you could use it too. Come on, nobody's going to miss us."

"That does sound like an excellent idea." She slipped on her jacket, offering a tentative smile.

He didn't return it, but she helped him walk along anyway.

They stopped near the ravine across the Normandy's bow, where they had looked up at the skies that first day. "So, what's the news?" he asked, squinting into the shadows of the forest. He couldn't bear to look the other way.

The broker took a deep, cleansing breath. "We've triangulated our position from nearby stars. Close enough for the Alliance to send a rescue ship."

"I've got a surprise for you," he said. "Close your eyes."

"Oh?" She did so, smiling.

He moved closer, wondering at that perfect trust, and slashed with all his strength.

The scalpel cut clean through her throat, and warm blood gushed through his fingers as he felt them snapping. The snarl he made through clenched teeth was both a cry of triumph and a scream of pain. He knew, he always knew, he could be strong enough, fast enough, if only he didn't mind breaking. Hadn't Shepard been the same?

The broker toppled, and he laughed because he'd heard all the jokes but now her network was too useless to inherit. Aftershocks of laughter shook his shoulders as he rolled the body across the grass. He paused, panting, at the edge of the ravine.

The crests matched the color and the curve of _her_ hair. He admired them for a moment, then cut in.

* * *

><p>Four of them were left now: the quarian, the engineer, and the specialist besides him, and all of them reluctant to lead. Nobody worked up the nerve to search for the asari. Instead, they sealed the outer doors, set barriers across the holes, and let the ship's air simmer with their fear.<p>

Stranded on a garden world with three beautiful girls…once it would have been the stuff of his dreams. Now he snapped at them, snarling as they worried for his broken hand and, once, even tried to help him take a piss. They were too slow, too emotional, too timid, too understanding. Too quick to filter their jokes, and far too oblivious to realize why they still lived.

It was _her_, of course, sheltering them even in death, keeping them dry with _her_ flesh and _her_ bones and keeping them warm with _her_ heartbeat. All _she_ needed in return was a part of themselves. Was it so much to ask? He could feel it, even now. He was close. _She_ was stirring. After everything he'd gathered—eyes, tongue, crest, even a lock of silver hair—he needed one more missing piece. Then _she_ would live.

He sat up straight, eyes alight, when it came to him. _Skin_.

For a long while, he hesitated, remembering the girl who had cried—but he couldn't bring _her_ back with tears.

"Hey, Joker." The quarian stepped into the AI core. "What did you need?"

"Hey," he said. "I was wondering if you could have another look at—" He settled for waving at the wall with his good hand, and blew out a breath, eyes darkening. Ever since the crash, he had been choking at the thought of saying _her_ name. He hated himself for it.

"Oh." Her voice deflated. "I suppose…hm. Yes." She moved uncertainly at first, eyes on her omni-tool as it flashed through diagnostics. There wasn't a speck of dust on the memory banks. He cleaned them everyday. "Now that we're settled, it's a good way to pass the time. The Antigua is still three months out, and I'm already tired of losing at chess."

She woke the lights one by one with gentle, reverent taps, and he loved her for trying.

"You shouldn't spend so much time in this room, you know," the quarian said, pulling out an array of chips. "Keelah, Joker, you even dragged in a refrigeration unit. What's in here?" Before he could stop her, she knelt and looked in.

He grew completely still.

"So that's where all the cola went." A grin brightened her voice as she rocked back on her heels.

"Tali…" he croaked, hearing the catch in his voice as he found that he cared for her name.

"Right, right," she said, closing the door. "I won't tell Sam and Gabby."

"It's okay." He shuffled close, placing an awkward hand on her shoulder. Tali rose, sobering at the anguish on his face, and turned to embrace him.

"I'd do anything to bring her back." His confession. His apology. One silent shot from the broker's modded gun, and she slumped to the floor. It's quick.

His hands shook, but he took what he needed.

"You can watch," he told the corpse. "You're the only one who cared. You deserve to see." Her visor tilted as though she nodded in reply, reflecting purple light on bare skin.

Into the enviro-suit he poured everything he had, everything the crew had given him.

"When you wake up," he promised, "I'll get you the rest. Then it will be just you and me."


End file.
